Pack of Wolves, page 2
Say the word, and I will get you free.
Tilting his head toward his left shoulder, Cyrus can barely glimpse the woods and their hidden depths. The long cast shadows are a small mercy in the fading light, yet Cyrus can still find his Ddraig in a matter of seconds. Suryc’s gleaming eyes draw his attention immediately, his elongated teeth shining as if they catch the last whispers of breath from the dying light.
Let me help you, Cadogan.
Cyrus does not answer, and instead drops his head against his chest. The smell of Falcon’s decay overwhelms him. Shadows circle lower, some of the braver scavengers landing on the ground and hopping over to Falcon’s exposed feet. A moan escapes Cyrus’s lips at the sound of the vultures’ beaks digging into her body. The hollow clack of them against her bones nearly drives Cyrus mad with revulsion. Howls of coyotes in the fields behind the house alert him to other predators that will soon come to claim a fresh, easy meal. Wolf can’t torture me if I’m dead, Cyrus repeats to himself even as he struggles against the binds. Maybe the coyotes and vultures are preferable. One slow death or a hundred times over? Maybe I should just let the beasts finish me off now.
Iris’s face drifts through his mind’s eye, a frown pulling at her lips as she reprimands him. Are you so weak, so foolish, and so pitiful that you’d give up your life at the first whisper of trouble? Grow a pair, Cyrus! Fight back!
“Go on! Get out of here!” A familiar voice hisses as a darkly clad phantom approaches from the forest’s edge. Swiping a large branch at the vultures, the figure soon clears Falcon’s body of any scavengers. “What kind of fool are you, Condor? Why would you come back here?” the man demands, his clever eyes boring into his former leader’s face.
“Wren! My gods, am I glad to see you,” Cyrus cries in relief, a pounding headache replacing the stars in his sight. Yet as Wren begins to unfasten the binds around his wrists, Cyrus commands him to stop.
“You can’t be serious, Condor! Let me get you free!” Wren protests, his fingers slipping on the traitor binds.
“Move Falcon’s body instead, Wren. Most of the animals will be drawn to her rotten scent. Get her away from me, and that will remove the worst of the danger,” Cyrus explains his wishes, his voice quivering. “I need to stay here with Wolf, as crazy as that sounds.” I can be strong, Cyrus declares to the mental representation of Iris still swimming in his thoughts. For Iris, I can do anything. I owe her for all the hell I put her through in the House of Vultures.
“What on earth could possibly be so important that you would choose to stay here?” Wren’s voice trails off as he scans the porch of the dilapidated house, his eyes constantly roving through his surroundings just to make certain that he is safe. He focuses on Cyrus’s grimly set jaw and realizes that his arguments are futile. Wren’s voice is a whispered resignation as he questions, “You know what he’s going to do to you, right?”
“I do,” Cyrus admits, his body already revolting at the thought of the horrors he will face at Wolf’s hand. “But if I am here, then I can keep an eye on his movements. I can still try to convince him that following the Ddraigs offers us the best chance of protecting ourselves against Déchets.”
“You’re still trying to protect Mynah, aren’t you?” Wren surmises, nodding to himself when Cyrus’s mouth falls open. “You’ve always had a soft spot for that one.”
“What makes you think I ever cared for her?” Even as Cyrus speaks the words, he hears his half-hearted attempt at deception. Rather than insult Wren by continuing to protest what he already knows, Cyrus confesses, “As a leader, I was a complete and utter fool. I truly believed that I could keep Mynah safe and free. I thought that by taking control over the house, I could shield Mynah from a little of the harshness of this life. Instead, I think I poisoned her, Wren. Everything that happened—it’s all my fault!”
“You take too much credit for the actions of others, Condor,” Wren offers his advice sagely, shaking his head as he emphasizes his claims. “Hard as you might try, you cannot control what everyone else does or the consequences that follow. Surely you—and Mynah for that matter—can see that!”
Cyrus bows his head low under the weight of his own guilt. “Despite everything that happened, Mynah needs my help now. I will not fail her again.” Trying not to thrash against the traitor bonds, Cyrus stifles his anxiety by focusing his mind on his days in the House of Vultures. “How did you know that I cared for Mynah? I took great pains that no one would suspect me.”
“You remember why you brought me into the House’s elite council?” Wren replies, cutting off the left sleeve of his shirt. Stretching it wide until the threads scream and snap under his attack, Wren carefully pulls the fabric over his head. It will partially filter the horrible stench in the air around Falcon’s body as he attempts to move her into the woods.
“I asked you to join the elite because I wanted a spy among their ranks,” Cyrus replies, his mind drifting back to the early days of his leadership. “I needed someone who could quietly slip into shadows unseen, listen into conversations unnoticed, and hide in plain sight. You were the best for such tasks, Wren. You still are.”
“I know,” Wren mutters, ripping through the leather cords that hold Falcon’s decaying legs upright. “Nothing happened in our house that I did not see. I think you managed to keep your feelings for Mynah hidden from everyone else—even Mynah herself. However, I’m not so easily fooled.”
Cyrus sighs as Iris’s irate face scowls at him in his memory. “I really screwed things up with her, Wren.”
“Regrets solve nothing, Condor. Much like your decision to stay in this hellhole with a man who intends to torture you will not undo the past,” Wren offers as he slices through the binds holding Falcon’s arms in place. Completely free of its tethers, her body crumples like a piece of paper about to be thrown away. Her belly splits open when it strikes the gravel path, blackening blood and entrails spilling across the earth in putrid masses. “Gods almighty, I wish you’d just let me free you instead!” Tearing strips of fabric off his shirt’s hem, Wren wraps his hands in makeshift gloves to protect them from Falcon’s decay. Both he and Cyrus heave and gag as Wren piles her internal organs on top of her chest and drags her into the forest.
Cyrus weeps as he vomits, his breaths increasing as he waits for Wren to return. Suryc’s brilliant eyes gleam once more in the tree line. Despite Cyrus’s wishes, the Ddraig will not move deeper into the forest. “Cyrus, this is madness!” Suryc hisses, smoke wafting through the air like long fingers of fog that reach and grasp at Cyrus’s body.
“I haven’t completed Mynah’s orders, have I?” Cyrus snarls, writhing in fury as he bares his teeth to his Ddraig. “I cannot leave until I’ve done what I set out to do. Besides, you need to be worrying about that hunting party Wolf sent into the forest! What if they find you?”
“Don’t fret over me; unlike you, I can take care of myself! But if you stay like this, you will only end up getting yourself killed,” Suryc asserts, stamping his large feet in frustration. Getting no response from his Cadogan, Suryc skulks out of view, grumbling as he disappears into the forest’s depths.
I’m alone, Cyrus thinks as isolation envelops him. His breathing grows shallow, his eyes darting back and forth. Cyrus’s limbs tremble and cramp as he tries and fails to curl into a ball, the traitor binds inhibiting his efforts. Only exhaustion finally calms him down, forcing his heart to slow its rapid thrashing against his cage-like ribs.
How can Wolf truly believe this way of life is right? Did he eat human flesh and contract a brain sickness? Cyrus shivers at the thought, memories of previous victims of such ills replaying through his mind. He’d stumbled across a camp of brain-sick nameless unchosen only once in his lifetime. The terrorized gibberish of their cries still rings in his ears. Wolf’s always been this bloodthirsty and depraved, hasn’t he? How can I ever get through to him?
“You owe me for that, you know it?” Wren croaks as he approaches, wiping his own spittle and bile from his chin. Somewhere in the forest, Wren has thrown his mask away too. Cyrus cannot keep from staring at Wren’s strong, dark features as he saunters closer to the traitor binds. Somehow his skin has maintained a deep tan despite the mask.
“Thank you. For dealing with Falcon and for believing me,” Cyrus whimpers, grateful to have one human ally in this dreadful place. Baring his face is the equivalent of offering Cyrus complete trust and loyalty. Cyrus feels a soothing in his anxious nerves that is as strong as the valerian root tea he used to drink to keep nightmares at bay.
Wren, completely unaware of how much his maskless face has affected Cyrus, grumbles under his breath. “I’m not just talking about a debt that a couple of extra helpings of dinner could repay either. I mean, I’m going to want something huge for moving that reeking sack of guts. Ugh!” Wren gags once more, shuddering as he turns toward the grass, fearing he will vomit again.
“I know,” Cyrus answers, intending to give Wren whatever he seeks as recompense. “What made you decide to lose your mask and trust me?”
Wren scrapes at the bloody gravel where Falcon had fallen. “I’m no longer a part of any house. After the House of Vultures fell, I never joined Wolf’s pack. I’ve put my skills to good use living in the shadows.” Wren hesitates, his eyes searching the ground for any other signs of his presence as he prepares to leave. “Besides, I’ve known you for years, and in all that time, I’ve never seen you go back on your word. If you say that following the Ddraigs is the right way to go, then I know you believe it. That’s good enough for me.”
For now, Cyrus adds, feeling no anger at the clarification. Deep down, he knows that Wren will always choose whatever is in his own best interest. He’s playing the odds, betting that Cyrus and the Ddraigs have the strongest chances for survival. Should Cyrus’s situation change, he knows that Wren will re-evaluate his loyalty. It’s a smart, cunning attitude, and Cyrus expects nothing less from the master of disguises. “Any news that could be worthwhile to me? What has been going on since Iris and I left with the Ddraigs?”
Wren’s mouth forms a grim frown as he answers. “I’ve been closely watching your brother’s pack since the house fell. Everything seemed okay until the day he returned from the Ddraigs when they rejected him. Since then he keeps strange hours, and he disappears, sometimes for days at a time. He’s slipping into delusional madness, Condor—”
“Cyrus, my name is Cyrus.” Wren tenses as he waits for the naming rituals to connect their minds. When nothing happens, his eyebrows raise in surprise. “It has to do with my Ddraig. Our connection gives him to ability to stop the side effects that come from knowing another’s name. I don’t understand it all, if I’m being honest.” Cyrus pauses to give Wren a moment to process before continuing. “Don’t tell me your true name though, Wren. I don’t want to have any secret information that Wolf might attempt to pry out of me later.”
Wren eyes the surroundings for any signs of eavesdroppers, focusing on the place where Suryc was standing only moments beforehand. He squints as he inspects the shadows carefully, intuitively feeling the Ddraig’s presence. However, finding the area empty, Wren turns back to Cyrus. “You should know that something is wrong with your brother, Cyrus.” Wren stumbles over the name, struggling to adjust to the change. “He’s losing touch with reality.”
Cyrus nods as he agrees with Wren’s assessment, wondering once more how he can accomplish Iris’s impossible task. “Wolf has always been a little mental, but the lifestyle he’s been able to live in these masks helped hide it from the rest of the world. Now, with Mynah gone, his connection to her is stretched thin, and with this new threat of war, he’s proving how deranged he truly is.”
“It’s more than that, Cyrus. These odd hours he’s keeping…I can’t put my finger on it, but I just know he’s up to something,” A crack of a twig near the forest’s edge startles Wren. He backs away from Cyrus’s side, shrouding himself in his dark jacket’s hood. “Look, I’ve stayed out in the open too long. I will remain close by and assist you when I can.”
“Thank you, old friend,” Cyrus wheezes before his friend disappears into the darkness. “You’ve done so much for me over the years. I owe you a—”
“Stop,” Wren demands, waving off Cyrus’s gratitude out of embarrassment. Despite his wish to be under the cover of the forest, Wren hesitates, exclaiming, “Hiding as much as I have, I’ve seen a great many private details in the lives of our roommates. I’m a silent knower of many secrets that most of our friends don’t even realize exist. I’ll tell you all about them sometime if you wish. Yet in all my years with the House of Vultures, I think that the true master of disguises was you. You hid behind your leadership, your bravado, and your arrogance.” Facing Cyrus once more, Wren plunges ahead with the secret currently weighing down his heart. “I was on the roof the night Mynah killed Creeper. Before the wake, you poured out your tears to the moon, lamenting and calling up into the heavens as though you could find solace there. You were so distraught that you never even checked to see if you were alone.”
A sheepish flutter irritates Cyrus’s heart as he remembers that night. Embarrassment flushes his cheeks. “I feel so foolish to think of that time in my life. Now, facing the aftermath of the choices I made, I find I am lost. I do not know how to undo everything I did.”
“You can’t, Cyrus,” Wren hisses, scuffing the toe of his well-worn boot in the gravel. “It does no good to dwell on what is done. You played your part well, and had I not heard you that night, I would never have learned your secret. Oh, I made it sound like you couldn’t fool me earlier, but that was deception. It’s what I do, and I’m not sorry for it. But even I had no idea of your true feelings until then.”
“Why tell me this now?” Cyrus wonders, unsure of Wren’s motives as he stalks closer once more.
“You owe me nothing, Cyrus. I’m just a man, like you. Flawed, fallible, and good at misleading others. I just thought you needed to know that,” Wren replies, scuffing the dirt with his toe as embarrassment floods his cheeks. “However, I did see a great deal about Mynah in my spying. And I think that if you let your act slip, if you allow her to see the real you, she will never look twice at Wolf again.”
“I cannot dare to dream of such hope,” Cyrus whimpers brokenly, feeling heat build in his eyes where tears would normally fall. With everything that’s happened, Cyrus has no extra energy to divert to his grief. Wren nods once, then slips into the shadows silently, but his departing words haunt Cyrus’s mind long into the night.
The land around the House of Vultures comes alive as darkness sweeps between the trees. Insects chirp and flutter through the inky blackness as nighthawks and owls rejoice over their feasts. Small animals scurry through the underbrush, coyotes and wolves giving chase. The strangest noise of them all is the cacophony of frogs at the nearest creek. Each one croaks at a different time, producing one steady, drawn out monotony. It’s like a creaking door that never closes, and the sound sets Cyrus’s teeth on edge. Every moment, every noise is like an unseen threat that uses the darkness to draw closer to its prey. The muscles in Cyrus’s neck pulse with tension, straining his shoulders while he keeps a constant vigil. How long before they get curious? He wonders as he listens to a coyote howling in the distance. How long before something comes looking for easy prey and finds me? How long will I suffer before I finally die from their attack?
A few curious critters rustle through the underbrush as the hours pass, but Suryc chases them away before any damage can be done. Satisfied that he will not die by animal attack, relief gives way to exhaustion. Well past midnight, the air rapidly cools as Cyrus waits for sleep to finally claim his weary bones. As the moon drifts high overhead, two long-loved faces appear in his mind’s eye: the first is Mynah as a child, her long white hair gleaming in the full moon’s light, and the second is Iris, the powerful, hardened warrior that girl has become.
Cyrus speaks of these faces aloud as though Wren or Suryc is standing beside him. His voice is a whisper, the words slurring as his eyes drift closed. “Though she is alive, she haunts me. She is a beautiful phantom that captivates my eyes. I know she hates me, but I cannot escape her…nor do I wish to.”
Chapter 2
Murmuring voices pull Cyrus out of his fitful sleep the next morning. Sunlight glares in his eyes as he drinks in the sight of the other members of Wolf’s pack. None of them, however, are focused on the captive. All eyes are frozen on the empty bindings where Falcon’s body once was tied. “Where did she go?” someone asks fearfully as Jackal and his other guards inspect the scene.
Did Wren return after I fell asleep? Cyrus calls out to Suryc in amazement. His movements had been so stealthy that even Cyrus hadn’t heard him.
Yes; he wanted to give the Pack of Wolves something to chew on…besides you, Suryc mutters, not even attempting to hide the irritation in his voice. Cyrus, let me get you out of there!
Cyrus does not respond; his eyes are too bewildered by the scene that Wren has left for everyone to find. Wren replaced the ropes that he cut off Falcon’s ankles and wrists. Now, the new—albeit bloody—ropes in the traitor binds appear to have been untied by Falcon’s own decaying hands. Wren had found another use for Falcon’s blood and gore as well. Carefully coating the soles of her shoes, Wren created bloody footprints leading off into the forest.
The sight fulfills its intended purpose, but it is the hastily written parchment tacked to the crossbar of the traitor bonds that really strikes terror into the hearts of the pack members. “I will return,” Jackal reads, eyeing Cyrus’s binds for any signs of foul play. “How did she get loose?”
